


Change Our Stars

by NachoDiablo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Historical Inaccuracy, Jousting, Knight Steve, M/M, Minor Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov, Movie AU, Non-specific time period, elbows, lord Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachoDiablo/pseuds/NachoDiablo
Summary: Steve is not really a knight, but he’s determined to change his fate.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	Change Our Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [leila](https://a-majesti.tumblr.com/) as always for the beta read and sharing in my joy of making these two be as sappy as possible <3
> 
> Check out this breathtaking art by [Cinni](https://twitter.com/itscinni/status/1252749398368571392?s=20) of Sam and Steve together, thank you so much my friend for sharing such magical SamSteve art!!! <3
> 
> This is based (very) loosely on the movie A Knight’s Tale.

“I can do this.” Steve brandished a crumpled square of parchment in front of Natasha’s face. She sat cross legged by the river, watching Bucky groom their horse, Captain, with a critical eye.

She frowned and plucked the parchment from his hands. “You can do what, exactly?”

“Win.”

Her expression did not change. “Win _what?”_

“The tournament.”

“Loudest snores,” Bucky called from behind Captain. “Is that one of the tourney categories?”

“Doubtful,” Natasha replied, “but perhaps talking with one’s mouth full is on the schedule.”

“What about falling off one’s horse?”

“He’d lose that one for sure, so long as style was a factor.”

“Nat, please!” Steve squared his jaw. “You know what I mean. This is a proper tournament, with joust, and swordfight, and melee. I could enter and compete. And I could _win._ You _know_ I could.”

Natasha’s face fell into lines of sympathy. “I know you could _win,_ Steve. I have absolute faith in that. It is the part where you _enter_ that confuses me. Only knights may enter tourneys, and you are no knight.”

Steve couldn’t argue with that logic. He’d been taken on as a squire by Sir Abraham Erskine fifteen years ago, at age seven. Bucky had been squiring for Sir Abraham for a year at that point. Steve had been over the moon to join them, poor health and slight stature be damned. But even at that young age, he understood how slim the odds were that he’d ever be raised higher than that.

Still, Steve had loved Sir Abraham, and had taken immense pride in learning everything he could from the kindly older man. And the affection had been mutual, as Sir Abraham had done everything within his power as a somewhat eccentric herbalist to ease Steve’s ailments and allow him to grow up strong and strapping. Under Sir Abraham’s tutelage, and as a practice sparring partner in preparation for tourneys, Steve had honed his skills in most competitive areas.

But just two weeks past, Sir Abraham had passed unexpectedly. All three of them had mourned their beloved mentor, but Steve had been especially despondent. He was without the parentage required to become a true knight, but Sir Abraham had indulged him, tutored him as though he were a protege rather than a servant. Steve doubted that kindness would be extended by his next employer.

Steve turned Natasha’s words over in his head. “It’s true,” he conceded. “I am certainly no knight. But there is no need for _me_ to enter.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and ducked back behind Captain, muttering something at Steve’s expense, no doubt. Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she met his gaze.

“What do you mean?” she asked in a tone that Steve knew meant she had a damn good inkling already. He grinned and sat next to her, knocking their shoulders together.

“Sir Abraham could join the roster for this tourney,” he said. “We have his old armor, we have his horse. We have his papers. We are at least three territories away from anyone who knows him by sight.”

“I don’t think--”

“Please.” Steve grabbed one of her hands. “When’s the last time any of us had a square meal? Even if I’m not declared champion of the entire tourney, there are still handsome prizes for doing well in the events.”

Natasha looked uncertain as she glanced back down at the parchment. Steve could see the wheels turning in her head. 

“I’m in,” Bucky declared. He rested his forehead against Captain’s and grinned. “You’ll do it anyway. Better that we’re beside you while you’re being reckless.”

Steve laughed, and even Natasha cracked a smile. She pursed her lips as she reread the parchment notice once more.

“Alright,” she acquiesced. “I’m in, too. If we pull this off, we’ll finally get a decent meal. If not, we’re no worse off than we are now. What have we got to lose?”

~

Steve stared down at the golden statue in his hands. He’d done it. He’d won first place in sword. He’d come in fourth in the joust, which was a disappointment, but not unexpected. Joust was the most elite category in any tourney, and Steve was still just a squire at heart, though his papers said otherwise. There was much for him to learn.

He’d managed to charm his way through the registration with relative ease. No one questioned his credentials. Bucky and Natasha had played their parts to perfection, treating him as though he were truly their superior, though Steve had noticed their conspiratorial grins and smothered giggles.

Steve tucked the statue under his arm as he weaved through the crowded streets, searching for the tent where Natasha had set up her armory work. They needed to hock the award for as much coin as the gold was worth, then move on before they caught trouble. If it was discovered that he was a lowborn person masquerading as a knight, Steve would be in serious trouble. But more importantly, Natasha and Bucky would be in trouble as well, and Steve was determined to ensure their safety.

He mumbled polite pardons as he tried to make his way through the throngs of people. When he reached yet another dead end, he cursed under his breath, then turned around and headed back down the main road.

“On your left,” he said as he tried not to jostle a finely dressed man near the edge of the road.

“I can see that.” The man sounded amused. “This is not the first time you’ve passed me. Do you perhaps need directions, or are you merely trying to get in your daily exercise?”

Steve skidded to a halt. He turned towards the man and grinned, embarrassed. “I might need directions,” he confessed. “I’m looking for my… armorer. I’m not sure where she has set up her tent, but--”

“She?” The man sounded surprised, and Steve steeled himself for a derogatory comment. Women armorers were not abundant, and Sir Abraham had often had to field faux concern as to the extent of Natasha’s skills. 

But the man wore a pleased smile on his face. Steve noticed a little gap in his front teeth. He also noticed how the man’s rich brown eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and how nicely his freshly trimmed beard complemented his smooth cheekbones. 

“I did not realize the Sir Abraham that Natasha worked for was so young,” the man said. “She spoke quite highly of you.”

“Ah yes,” Steve nodded. “Sir Abraham. That would be me, and I am… this.” He waved his hand in a vague manner.

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on Steve’s stumbling. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Abraham. I am Lord Samuel Wilson, and I owe you a great debt. Natasha was kind enough to mend the breastplate of one of our knights prior to the joust, and he’s placed second.”

Lord Samuel stuck out his hand. Steve accepted it without thinking, then panicked. What was the proper protocol for greeting a Lord? Surely it wasn’t a handshake, of all things. Flashes of being arrested for impersonating a knight ran through Steve’s head as he tried to remember how the real Sir Abraham would have handled this situation.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said eventually. “And there is no debt owed. It is an honor to assist you, my Lord, and we are most grateful to be of service.”

Lord Samuel’s grin widened as he shook his head. “We can dispense with the formalities. Truly, I appreciate the help.”

Steve felt his own smile bloom in reply. He liked Lord Samuel’s open manner. It felt warm and genuine, unlike the stuffy imitation of politeness offered by so many nobles. “If we are dispensing with formalities, then let me assure you, Natasha only assists those whom she deems worthy of her efforts. So I can declare with full confidence that it was our pleasure to help.”

“Your candor makes me even more appreciative,” Lord Samuel said. “And if you like, I am more than happy to guide you to your destination. It would please me to thank Natasha once more.”

The arm Lord Samuel offered was clad in black silk patterned with gold embroidery; it stretched tightly across his bicep. Steve’s face felt warm as he linked his arm through Lord Samuel’s and allowed himself to be led through the crowd.

~

Steve kept winning.

They meandered from tourney to tourney, racking up points and gaining favour with the public. Steve’s grin could melt even the hardest hearts as he waved at the crowds and handed his favours not to the ladies of the court, but to the children who flocked to the lower decks of the stands to cheer him on. Every trophy he won was handed over to Natasha, who hocked it for currency and barters. They ate and drank with gusto as they traveled, but Bucky squirreled away the majority of their winnings to ensure their future.

Natasha had managed to strike a deal with another young armorist, a no-nonsense blonde named Sharon, who’d crafted Steve his own fitted armor, lightweight and cleverly made. The freedom of movement while clad in armor built for him specifically had Steve winning more handily than he’d ever dreamed possible.

Natasha invited Sharon to travel with them on their tourney excursion after Sharon’s armor allowed Steve to win second place-- and a hefty amount of gold-- in the joust. Sharon accepted. Privately Bucky and Steve suspected that the guarded Natasha had other reasons for extending the invitation. Suspicions which seemed to be confirmed by the fleeting touches and furtive glances between the two, though both Bucky and Steve respected their friend’s privacy and declined to tease them.

Steve had continued to cross paths with Lord Samuel as well, or Sam, as he’d asked to be addressed. They often shared meals or went for walks around the tourney grounds. For as much as Steve hungered for glory and gold, he soon found himself looking forward to Sam’s smiles most of all.

Steve felt as though he knew Sam already; every new tidbit of information shared was like a sip of the most familiar wine. They had similar temperaments, and Sam did not seem to mind Steve’s awkward jokes or obvious blushes. He allowed Steve to tease him, and his responses in kind were warm and friendly. 

What Sam’s attentions might mean, Steve did not allow himself to dwell on. He had to focus on the important matters at hand; namely, winning the joust competition and gaining the highest-- and most expensively rewarded-- honor of any competition; Tournament Champion.

As Steve stood in their tent, with Natasha and Sharon fastening his armor in preparation for the joust, Sam slipped in gracefully. He bowed to the ladies before turning to Steve with a smile, slightly more hesitant than usual, but still determined.

“Sir Abraham,” Sam said in a tone unfamiliarly formal. “You do not usually attend the post tournament events.”

Steve nodded, unsure of why Sam was stating that fact. Steve had little interest in the parties and dances that followed each tournament. While he did attempt to come across as amiable, he had no doubt that under an intense level of social interaction scrutiny, his facade would crumble. Besides, one was expected to dress to the nines at every event, and Steve had neither the gold nor the patience for fashion.

“And yet I understand from your squire that you will be attending this evening’s ball.”

“Er,” Steve gaped. “I will?”

“You will, Sir.” Bucky had sidled up next to Sam, wearing a Cheshire cat grin that made Steve scowl in response. He wasn’t sure what Bucky’s angle was, but he was certain that it meant nothing good for himself. Unfortunately, Steve was also certain that he’d go along with whatever Bucky wanted from him, so there was no point in attempting to evade his wishes. 

Steve forced his expression back to something neutral, then nodded at a wary Sam. “Yes, I suppose I will be attending. I do hope I will see you there?”

“You will.” Sam looked nervous, which was out of character. Before Steve could inquire as to his health, Sam added quickly, “What colors will you be wearing this evening?”

“I’m… what?” Steve asked, bewildered.

“The colors of your tunic,” Sam said. He bit his lower lip, then squared his shoulders. “If I know what colors you will be wearing, I’ll be sure to don the same.”

“Oh,” Steve breathed, realization dawning. It was common for people to coordinate outfits when they were courting. Happiness flared in Steve’s chest for a moment, before it was extinguished by the reminder that he did not, in fact, have finery of _any_ color to choose from.

“Green,” Bucky interjected smoothly. “Sir Abraham’s tunic accents this evening will be a teal green.”

Steve tried to appear unsurprised by this knowledge as he nodded in agreement. Sam reached out to rest his hand on Steve’s armor clad arm for a moment before pulling back with a smile.

“Then my tunic shall be chosen to match.”

Once Sam had bid Steve good luck for the joust and left them alone, Steve let out a frustrated huff. “Bucky, what in heavens were you thinking?” he groused. “I haven’t got a teal green dress tunic! I haven’t got _any_ dress tunic!”

“You don’t,” said Bucky. “But _I_ have got a thimble, needle, and copious free hours until the ball. And those drapes in the back of this tent are such a lovely color, don’t you think?”

~ 

Steve was still in a daze as he led Captain to the joust. Lord Samuel Wilson wanted to court _him._ That had to be Sam’s intent, surely. Steve knew it wasn’t wholly accepted for two men to openly partner in that way, but it was also considered rude to pry into the private lives of the nobility, as long as they kept good favor. And it was no surprise that Steve’s affections had been noticed; he was not what anyone would call subtle. 

It _was_ surprising that someone as handsome and clever as Sam-- and a Lord, no less-- would return those affections. Steve had never been lucky in love. Not that he’d tried very often. He’d always been focused on his training, and he was particular about the company he kept. Sam, however, had been in step with Steve from the first moment they’d met. 

Bucky and Natasha had teased Steve mercilessly, even as they hacked away at the tent drapes with glee. Sharon had been far more sympathetic, offering up one of her own shawls to be taken apart and used for embellishments. Steve had faith in Bucky’s quick fingers; he had no doubt the final product would be lovely.

He frowned as he got closer to the arena. An armoured man glowered down at a small boy. The boy had an orange clutched in his trembling hands as he looked up at the man with fearful eyes. Steve’s own eyes narrowed as he got closer and picked up on their conversation.

“--won’t ask again, hand over the orange. I’m hungry.”

“I… I would, Sir, but my mother asked that I bring it home immediately.” The boy’s voice shook, but his eyes were steady. “My sister is ill, she needs--”

“Don’t bother telling stories,” the man scoffed. His sneer jogged Steve’s memory; this was Sir Brock Rumlow. One of the most decorated knights at the tourneys, as well as one of the most unbearable, in Steve’s opinion.

“Where would you get the coin for fruit, anyway?” Sir Brock leaned in to peer closer at the boy. “You likely stole it. Hand it over, and there will be no need to call the guards.”

The boy's fingers curled tighter against the orange skin. Steve rolled his eyes and stepped forward.

“Well, hello there!” Steve kept his voice low and soothing as he smiled at the boy. “That’s very kind of you, to look out for your sister.” He pulled a few gold coins from the small pouch on Captain’s saddle. “Here you are, run along and take these home to your mother along with the orange. You did well, obeying her. She sounds like a wise woman.”

The boy’s eyes widened as he accepted the coins. He grinned at Steve, then saluted and ran down the street. Sir Brock scowled at Steve, but before he could complain, Steve pulled a copper from the bag.

“Here you are, Sir Brock. You must be hard up if you need to take food from the mouths of sick children. Never fear, I am happy to-”

“Piss off, Erskine,” Sir Brock snapped. “You might have the rabble fooled by your charming smiles and earnest deeds, but not everyone is quite as stupid as you assume. You’ve got skill, but the style… it is sorely lacking. I’m well aware that you’ve got secrets. And believe me when I say, I will figure them out.”

“You think my smiles are charming?” Steve batted his eyelashes. Sir Brock growled and turned on his heel. Steve let out a breath as he watched Sir Brock march towards the arena. He had to be more careful. He would need to study the movements and style of the other knights, see what he was missing.

He watched carefully as Sir Brock mounted his horse and moved into position. His opponent was already in place at the other end of the lists, outfitted in polished black and silver armor. Steve wasn’t familiar with the opponent’s name, Sir James something or other. He settled in to watch closely; he would be matched with the winner of this round. 

Suddenly, a squire bolted from the sidelines, arms waving frantically. He ran over to Sir Brock and tapped on his boot, not stopping until the knight leaned down so the squire could whisper in his ear. As soon as the squire finished speaking, Sir Brock straightened up, lowered his lance and bowed his head.

A murmur ran through the crowd as the squire hurried to speak with the announcer. The announcer nodded, then cleared his throat.

“Sir Brock Rumlow has forfeited this round,” the announcer boomed. “Victory goes to Sir James Stevens.”

The knight at the other end of the lists bowed to Sir Brock as the crowd gave a polite smattering of applause. As Sir Brock trotted away, Steve wondered why he had been so quick to forfeit. What information could the squire have shared that could make such a braggart give up his chance at victory?

He did not have to wait long to find out. As he mounted Captain, he saw Bucky pushing his way through the crowd. Bucky skidded to a halt at Captain’s side, gasping as he caught his breath.

“Steve,” he hissed. “You _must_ forfeit. That’s not a knight, it’s King T’Challa of Wakanda!”

“What?” Steve glanced over at his opponent. He noticed the peculiar sheen on his armor. Vibranium, Steve realized. It was true, then. The King of Wakanda was here, posing as a knight. The Wakandans were a famously private people, but everyone had heard tales of the richest and most beautiful kingdom in all the lands. 

No wonder Sir Brock had refused to compete. The risk of injury to a royal, either of body or of pride, was not worth the reward of victory. That risk increased tenfold when the royal in question was the revered King T’Challa.

And yet, surely the king understood that. Why else would he be in disguise? And who was Steve to question his motives, when he himself was under pseudonym as well? 

Steve shook his head. “No, I will not forfeit today.”

“But Steve--”

“I have come here of my own free will,” Steve said firmly. “As has my competitor. Let us respect each others’ choices.”

With that, he nudged Captain forward and trotted to his starting position. His competitor, King T’Challa or otherwise, straightened his stance as well. The announcer looked back and forth between the two with an uneasy expression. He raised his flag, then brought it down with a snap to start the first round.

Three rounds later, the match was declared a draw, with each of them earning one point. Steve waved to the crowd, grinning under his helm. He’d never seen the crowd so enthused. Surely rumours of Sir James’ identity had made their way through the stands.

Before Steve could steer Captain back towards the stables, his competitor cantered over. The other knight pulled off his helm, and indeed, it was King T’Challa himself. Gasps reverberated through the crowd as he fixed Steve with a measured expression, his regal features glistening with the slightest hint of perspiration, as though he’d merely been out for a leisurely ride rather than hefting a lance.

Steve was hasty to yank off his own helm and shove his hand through his own sweaty bangs to push them off his forehead. He scrambled to dismount, but paused when the king held up one hand.

“There is no need for that,” King T’Challa said. A smile ghosted over his lips. “You knew who I was.”

It was not a question, but Steve nodded. “I did,” he admitted.

“And yet, you still raised your lance.”

Steve nodded again. “It is not in me to forfeit.”

“Nor I.” The smile settled on King T’Challa’s face. “You are a good man, Sir Abraham Erskine. I will not forget this.”

And with that, he dug his heels into the sides of his horse and broke into a gallop, leaving Steve alone and gawking.

~

The ball later that evening was like nothing Steve had ever experienced. The food was rich and abundant, as was the festive decor at the local Lord’s estate. Nobility ambled through the spacious rooms, stopping to make small talk or toss easy compliments to one another. It was enough to make Steve’s head dizzy. 

Luckily, he found Sam quickly, or perhaps Sam found him. Sam had linked their arms and led Steve through the crowds. He’d introduced Steve to a few of his acquaintances, but Steve scarcely recalled their names. He was distracted by how lovely Sam looked, with the candlelight illuminating his eyes and reflecting off the smooth angles of his face. His beard had been trimmed to an impeccably groomed goatee, and small gold hoops adorned his ears.

Their tunics did indeed match quite nicely. The shades of teal complemented each other, and Steve’s simple embellishments allowed Sam’s more ornate ones to shine all the brighter. Steve noticed several other couples in coordinated colors. It filled his heart with joy, to know that Sam deemed him a companion worthy of wearing on his arm.

The first chords of a waltz chimed though the main room, setting Steve’s nerves on edge. He was not any sort of dancer. Natasha and Bucky had often tried to teach him during their time on the road, but Steve had been hopeless. He had been more than content to watch the two of them twirl around the fire together. When Sharon had joined their little group, she sat with him as well, and they took joy in kindly critiquing the different styles that Natasha and Bucky picked up and practiced throughout their travels.

The thought of dancing here, in front of Sam and all of his associates, made Steve lightheaded. Sam must have noticed, for he rested a hand on their linked arms and looked at Steve with a worried frown.

“Do you need some air, Sir Abraham? There is a balcony off the side of the conservatory that is seldom used.”

“Yes,” Steve sighed in relief. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

They made their way to the balcony. Steve breathed in the warm air of the summer evening as he leaned one hand against the railing. His other arm remained linked with Sam’s; Steve had no intention of removing it. Being this close to Sam was intoxicating; Steve wanted this feeling to last as long as possible.

“Are you feeling better?” Sam asked. Steve turned to him and smiled.

“Yes,” he replied. “I just… I am not used to so much… “ He trailed off, but he seemed to have said enough as Sam gave him a sympathetic look.

“Nor am I,” Sam confided. “I have only been back at court for a year at most. The constant socializing and opulence is hard to get used to.”

Steve hummed in sympathy. “You’ve mentioned before, that you were away for several years. Will you tell me more about that time, or is it… if it’s too forward of me to ask, I apologise.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He looked up at the night sky, then back at Steve. “It is not too forward,” he said eventually. “And even if it were, I would be happy to tell you.”

The blush burned on Steve’s face; he hoped it wasn’t visible. Sam ran his fingers under the edge of his collar and pulled a gold chain out from beneath his tunic. At the end of the chain was a charm, a set of gold wings inlaid with garnet. 

Steve’s pulse quickened. “You… you are a Falcon.” 

The Falcons were legendary. A band of elite knights and nobles, they had travelled the lands pursuing villains and assisting the townsfolk. Their identities were never confirmed, though rumours and speculation persisted, but their valor and generosity were cherished by many.

“I _was_ a Falcon,” Sam corrected. He tucked his chain back under his tunic. “For six years.”

Steve sidestepped towards Sam, pulling their linked arms closer. “That’s incredible.” 

“Yes,” Sam said, his voice just above a whisper. “It truly _was_ incredible, to be out there with the people, making a difference. I don’t believe I have ever been so content with my life as I was during that time.”

“What made you return?”

Sam’s shoulders slumped as he let out a heavy sigh. “I lost a dear friend. He was like a brother to me. We’d been inseparable since we were babes, but… well, we got into a perilous situation. And I was the only one who got out. Afterwards, I… I could not continue. Not without him.”

Steve wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Sam and pull him close. He hated the thought of Sam in pain, and longed to chase away all of his woes. Slowly, he adjusted the arm that was linked through Sam’s to slide down and catch his fingers, and press their palms together. 

“I am sorry that you’ve had to live through such pain,” Steve said, hoping that his emotions did not shine through his voice too openly. “But I’m so very, very glad that you made it back.” _To me,_ he thought, but dared not speak aloud.

Sam said nothing in reply, but his fingers curled around Steve’s hand and squeezed them tightly. They stood in silence for a while, listening as the crickets chirped and the leaves rustled.

“I apologise if you wanted to dance,” Sam said after a comfortable silence. “I am sure I saw more than a few young ladies eyeing you up as you entered the ball. You cut quite a fine figure, you know.”

The teasing note in Sam’s voice had Steve roll his eyes, even as his heart beat faster. “I suspect they were looking at you, not me,” he said, feeling bold. “And regardless, I fear they would change their mind once they saw my first dance. I am hopelessly flat footed. Natasha and Bucky have tried their very hardest, but I fear I’m a lost cause.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Sam took a step back from the balcony railing and tugged at Steve’s hand so they were facing each other. “Why don’t you show me? Perhaps I can give you some pointers.”

“Here? Now?” Steve tried not to let his panic show. “We cannot dance, there’s no… we cannot even hear the music--”

“That’s right.” Sam dropped Steve’s hand and moved to grip Steve’s hips. “There is no music, there is only you and me.”

Steve’s pulse thrummed as Sam pulled him closer. For a moment he blanched, unsure of what to do with his own hands. He settled them on Sam’s shoulders, lightly. He did not want to appear too forward, even though he wanted nothing more than to slide his hands across Sam’s broad shoulders, down and around his biceps, pull him closer, keep him safe, never let anything harm him again, body nor soul.

“See?” Sam sounded amused. “You are a fine dancer.”

Steve glanced down at his feet in mild surprise. He was shifting his weight back and forth, foot to foot. There was no rhythm to follow, no set tempo. It was just him, Sam, and the crickets.

Feeling brave, Steve pulled Sam in closer. He bent his head closer to Sam’s, just a hairsbreadth, then another. He held his breath as Sam’s eyes widened, meeting his. 

Slowly, achingly surely, they bent together until their foreheads touched. Sam’s eyelids fluttered closed, and Steve followed suit, as they moved together, back and forth, under the stars, easy as breathing.

~

“That was incredible!” Bucky rubbed Captain’s neck affectionately. “Well done, lovely! And your rider was not bad either.”

“Well said,” Steve laughed. He’d removed his helm, being sure to smile and wave to the crowd. Sweat clung to his skin beneath his armor, and his left shoulder was sore from where he’d twisted it at an odd angle, but he hardly noticed the discomfort as he followed Bucky and Captain out of the arena.

Sir Abraham Erskine had bested Sir James Rhodes, renowned as one of the finest jousters in every bit of land Steve had ever travelled through. He was also well known for being a man of honour and generosity. And endless patience, if even a quarter of the tales of his adventures with the Lord Anthony Stark were true.

They’d both performed admirably, but Steve had managed to eke in one additional hit in the final round. Sir James had been gracious in his loss, shaking Steve’s hand and sharing what seemed like a genuine compliment on his form.

It was true that Steve had been at his peak performance lately. But he could take no credit. It was solely due to the song in his heart that had been playing ever since he’d bid farewell to Sam at last week’s ball.

They’d spent the entire evening on the balcony. They’d talked quite a bit, but they’d also enjoyed long stretches of comfortable silence. The weight of Sam’s hand against his own had Steve’s head in the clouds the entire walk home.

He had been prepared for Natasha and Bucky to tease him, but they had been too eager to hear all about the ball. Steve had described in detail the food, the decour, the fashions, and his friends had soaked it all in.

“Imagine being able to dance on a marble floor,” Bucky had sighed, his chin resting in his palm. 

“Imagine slipping and breaking your leg on a marble floor,” Natasha had countered. 

Sharon had chuckled and wrapped her arms around Natasha, curled up in her lap like a cat. “You and Bucky would never slip. You dance so gracefully together. You and I, well, that would be a different story.” 

Natasha had tilted her head up to whisper something in Sharon’s ear, and the two women had collapsed into giggles. Steve had grinned, delighted to see Natasha let her guard down. Bucky had shaken his head, but he’d looked pleased as well.

“Did Sam dance with you?” Bucky had asked. “I would guess not, seeing as you are in such a pleasant mood. Clearly you did not embarrass yourself too terribly.”

Steve had ducked his head as his face flushed with heat, causing Bucky and Natasha to whistle and burst into laughter.

“We did dance,” Steve had admitted. “But it was private-- Nat, please, don’t make that face! It was _private,_ not indecent! I would _never_ put Sam’s honor at risk!”

“You love him.” Bucky’s words had been simple, his eyes illuminated with understanding. “You _love_ Sam.”

Steve had rolled his own eyes in reply. “Of course I love Sam.” He’d paused then, letting the weight of his words turn in his head. “I do, I… I love Sam.”

“And he loves you in return,” Sharon had said softly, her voice muffled against Natasha’s hair. “Any fool can see that. And none of us are fools, so be assured that we are correct.”

“It’s a good look on you.” Bucky had shifted closer to drape an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “It pleases us to see you like this. You deserve this happiness.”

“I don’t know,” Steve had hedged. “Sam is… he is _everything,_ and I am only me. I feel terrible for playing him false.” 

“Always so dramatic.” Natasha had raised an eyebrow. “Have you been anything other than genuine with Sam about your feelings? Have you misled him as to your intentions?”

“Never!” Steve had shaken his head with vigor. “I would _never_ do that, not ever! But he thinks I am a knight, and--”

“That is not playing him false,” Bucky had interrupted. “You _are_ a knight. In your heart, that’s what you are. And I do not believe for a moment that Sam would think less of you for your choices.”

“Perhaps,” Steve had allowed, “but I cannot continue like this. I have to… if I can only find the correct time, I can tell him the truth. In a few weeks, the competitions will be over for the season, and we can be on our way. I will tell him the truth, all of it, at that time. If things go poorly, we can disappear. But until then, I cannot share my secrets. I must wait until I know you three are safe.”

“For what it’s worth,” Sharon had piped up, “I would not be surprised if Sam is, well… also not surprised. He knows _you,_ Steve. And I’ve the feeling that Sam is the sort of person who cares more about the heart of a man, rather than the titles and nonsense.”

Steve had smiled gratefully at her, then had quickly changed the subject to describe the black currant pastries in detail. He hadn’t wanted to speculate further on how Sam would react when Steve’s identity was inevitably revealed.

The fear of what Sam would say when he learned the truth still flared in the pit of Steve’s stomach from time to time, but the euphoria was always quick to overtake it. As he followed Bucky and Champion, Steve allowed himself to daydream about what might transpire at their next meeting. He knew there was another ball scheduled for that evening, but he had not yet spoken to Sam about the logistics. He was not sure if it would be too forward to seek Sam out and ask if he would be attending, or if he should wait and see if Sam brought up the topic himself.

“Be careful,” Bucky said, nudging Steve with his shoulder. “If you let your head get too lost in the clouds, you will wander directly into another fruit cart.”

“Disgusting.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed at the unpleasant sound of Sir Brock Rumlow’s voice. He turned and fought to keep his expression neutral as he met Sir Brock’s sneer.

“Can I be of assistance?” Steve asked politely. Whatever Sir Brock wanted, all the better for him to get it out now and be done with it.

“How fitting that you ask that,” Sir Brock retorted. “Seeing as you let your inferiors talk to you as though _you_ are the one serving _them.”_

Steve pretended to stifle a yawn. “Do you have anything of importance to say? I’ve got to remove my armor, you see, so that I can pick up my trophy.”

“Yes… your trophy.” Sir Brock smiled, a frightening thing to see. “You seem to be doing quite well these days, or so I’ve heard. I’ve heard… a great many things. You’re quite the lucky man, it seems. Be assured, however. Luck can change.”

“It certainly can.” Steve turned on his heel and marched faster towards the tent. This time, Bucky and Captain hurried to keep up.

“Steve,” Bucky hissed. “Don’t let him--”

“Can you _please_ use the correct name?” Steve snapped back. “Heavens, Bucky, can you not see that people are suspicious? Would it kill you to be the slightest bit inconspicuous?”

Bucky shot Steve a reproachful look, but did not reply as he led Captain towards the stables. Steve did not dwell on it; he and Bucky had weathered their way through far worse disagreements. And he had been in the right, to correct Bucky’s language, Steve thought mulishly as he went to their tent so Natasha and Sharon could assist in removing his armor.

Usually the three of them bantered during this process, but today Steve remained silent. He stewed in his own thoughts, remembering Sir Brock’s haughty words and thinly veiled threats. How dare he insinuate that Steve should not care for his people? Even if he truly was a knight in title, he would still be appreciative and respectful of everything his friends did for him. They were a team, they always had been. How dare Sir Brock imply that this was wrong?

For that matter, what right did Sir Brock have to make any commentary on knightly behaviour? He knew nothing of valor or honor. Every time Steve saw him, he was doing something unchivalrous at best, downright cruel at worst. Steve had no care for how good a jouster he may be; jousting did not make a knight. 

Once he was free of his armor, washed, and in a fresh tunic, Natasha punched him lightly on his arm. “Get out of here,” she grumbled. “Go and find Sam. Perhaps he can lift the stormcloud that’s been hovering over you all afternoon.”

Steve muttered a thanks for the assistance, then stalked out of the tent. He trudged towards the river. The fresh air would help to clear his mind before he decided what to do about Sam. Perhaps he should skip the ball this evening and practice instead. There were only a few days left in the tournament season. Steve needed to place high in every event, to ensure as much gold as possible for whatever the future would bring. He had to focus on what was real, not what he wished reality to be.

“Sir Abraham!” Sam’s voice called out from behind.

Steve tried not to grimace as he turned around to greet him. “Good afternoon,” he said, more reserved than he’d intended. He nodded, but did not move to shake hands. “What can I do for you?”

Sam looked slightly taken aback. “I was hoping you could tell me what you planned to wear to the ball this evening.”

“Nothing,” Steve said, determined in his decision to skip the festivities.

“Well then, we’ll cause quite a stir, because I shall dress to match.”

The amused grin on Sam’s face immediately broke down whatever resolve Steve had managed to muster. He hurried to clasp Sam’s hands. “Forgive me,” he implored. “I did not mean to be cold, I just… have a great deal on my mind.”

“I can see that,” Sam teased. “I was surprised to see you down here, alone. I had supposed I would find you in the tavern, celebrating your victory.”

Steve shuddered at the thought of being squashed amongst the throngs of patrons. “Ah yes, I was just headed there now. You know me so well.”

“And you know me,” Sam said. He smiled and looked down at their hands. “I understand if you would prefer to miss this evening’s ball. I know how stressful the last days of a tourney can be.”

It made Steve feel remarkably small, to have a former Falcon assuring him that his worries over a silly game were founded. “Forgive me again, Sam. I am being ridiculous. And of course I will attend the ball with you this evening. I would not want to be anywhere else.”

“If you’re certain?” Sam asked.

“I am,” Steve asserted. “And I do believe that Bucky has selected a mustard tunic for me this evening. I would hate to disappoint him by not wearing it.” That part was true. Natasha had struck an excellent deal with a tailor for a bolt of silk that was finer quality than any garment any of them had ever worn. Bucky had painstakingly fashioned it into a beautiful tunic, fitted perfectly to Steve’s measurements, and was extremely proud of how it had turned out.

“Well,” Sam hesitated. “I would hate for you to be distracted during our time together. Perhaps, if you had a little extra luck, your mind might be more at ease.”

Before Steve could ask what Sam meant by this, Sam released one of his hands from Steve’s grip and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a falcon feather, nine inches long, shades of brown and gold glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

“I found this on my last excursion,” Sam said softly. “I know many knights wear favors when they compete. I would be honored if you would carry mine.”

The blood in Steve’s veins sang as he accepted the feather. “You are the one who honors _me,”_ he whispered. “Sam, you are the most… I have never, I…” He trailed off, overcome with emotion too intense for words. 

Instead, he raised Sam’s hand to his lips, pressing them fervently against Sam’s skin. He pulled back, blushing. “Forgive me if that was too bold, but... “

“Please,” Sam pulled their joined hands to rest against his chest. Steve could feel Sam’s heart beating beneath his palm. “There is nothing to forgive. Truly.”

They stood together, silent. Steve refused to tear his gaze away from Sam’s face for a single moment. He had never been so sure of anything in his life, the way he was absolutely certain that his heart belonged to Lord Samuel Wilson.

~

Natasha scowled down at Steve’s torso, patterned in yellow and blue bruising. She was not sympathetic to Steve’s winces of pain as she bandaged him, though her fingers were gentle.

“You are lucky you did not break a rib,” she grumbled. “Honestly, I have no idea how this happened. Sir Scott’s lance aim was all over the place.”

“Be fair,” Steve said through clenched teeth. “He did well. It is not his fault I was not paying close enough attention. It was my error.”

“It was no one’s error,” Bucky said. “Accidents happen. And a lesser knight would have been knocked from his horse. You managed to stay on and win the match.”

“But at what cost?” Natasha snapped. “If you had been seriously wounded…” She sighed and shook her head. 

Sharon rested a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “He will be fine,” she said in a soothing voice. “A day or two of rest, and he’ll be good as new in time for the final competitions.”

Natasha looked up at her and smiled. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

“I do, too,” Steve added. “I feel better already.”

“Your opinion holds no weight here,” Bucky said with a smirk. “You could have one foot in the grave, and you’d still insist that you were fine.”

“There’s no need to tease! I need my rest.” Steve settled back against the pillows on his bedroll and tried to look meek.

Natasha was not fooled. She poked his shoulder sharply as she rose to her feet. “You need your rest, and I need a drink. We will leave you now, but if I find out that you were up and about, there will be consequences.”

“You know I always listen to you.” Steve grinned as Natasha rolled her eyes before following Sharon and Bucky out of the tent. Once alone, he let out a relieved breath, carefully so as not to jostle his bandages. He closed his eyes, hopeful that sleep would come.

There were only a handful of tournaments left in the season. Once they were finished, it would be time to plot out their next move. The four friends had spent many nights chatting idly about what they might do next. It was not safe for Steve to pose as a knight indefinitely; the safest course of action would be for them to travel somewhere distant and start over.

But that would mean leaving Sam. And that seemed more and more an impossibility with every day they spent together.

Steve frowned to himself. He did not want to think about leaving Sam. Surely such sour thoughts would impede his recovery. Still, his stomach sank with the knowledge that he could not ignore the inevitable forever.

A tapping at the tent entrance startled Steve from his brooding. He looked up, annoyed, expecting to see Bucky duck in. When no one entered, his curiosity was piqued.

“Hello?” he called.

“Hello,” came the reply. Sam. Steve hastened to sit up and shift so he was propped up higher against his pillows. 

“Come in,” he said. It was only after Sam had slipped into the tent and his eyes had gone wide that Steve remembered he was not wearing a tunic. Embarrassment flushed through him as he struggled to pull the blankets up higher on his torso, but the wrenching movements sent pain shooting through his side.

“Be still,” Sam scolded as he hurried to Steve’s side. He knelt down beside the bed roll and set his hand on top of Steve’s, and Steve immediately settled.

“I did not mean to disturb you--”

“You could never disturb me!” Steve said in a rush. “I cherish every moment with you.”

“Natasha must have given you something particularly strong for the pain,” Sam chuckled.

“No,” Steve shook his head. “It is how I feel all the time.”

The way Sam looked at him then, with soft eyes and a gentle smile, had Steve’s heart beating faster than it ever had. The cool breeze against Steve’s skin when Sam pulled his hand back left him aching for another touch.

“I met your friends on my way here,” Sam said. “They mentioned that you were recovering. I was glad to hear it, but I wanted…” 

“What do you want?” Steve would have given Sam anything, he need only ask, but the pensive expression on Sam’s face worried him.

Sam drew his lower lip between his teeth and glanced down at his hands, folded in his lap. He looked back up at Steve and lowered his lashes slightly.

“Your friends care for you a great deal,” Sam said, each word picked and placed carefully. “I often hear them speak highly of you, even amongst themselves.”

Steve nodded, unsure as to where this was headed. “I care for them as well.”

“When they speak of you, they sometimes call you Steve.”

Steve nodded again, a lump forming in his throat. “They do.”

Sam reached one hand towards Steve, then paused. “It matters not to me, what you call yourself. You must know that by now.”

Tears brimmed in the corners of Steve's eyes, but he blinked them away. Sam knew. He knew, and he wanted Steve all the same. Steve took Sam’s hand in his own, and placed Sam’s palm over his heart. 

“I am yours,” Steve said. “Call me that, and I will be happy until the end of my days.”

Sam’s face bloomed with a smile bright enough to rival the sun. He pressed his hand against Steve’s chest, pushing him further against the pillows, leaned his face in closer, and captured Steve’s lips in a kiss. 

The feel of Sam’s lips against his own, soft and pliant, sent fire through Steve’s veins. He reached up to cup Sam’s cheek as they parted. Steve’s thumb ran across the edge of Sam’s beard, reverently, as though he had never touched anything so precious, which was the truth.

As Steve pulled Sam in for another kiss, he swore to himself that if this was the only night they had together, he would make damn well sure that every moment was perfect.

~

“Easy, Captain.” Bucky smoothed the horse’s mane as they headed towards the arena. “You must keep your wits about you today.”

“One of us has to,” Steve muttered.

“You will do fine,” Bucky assured him. “Better than fine.”

“I hope so.”

It was the final day of the final tournament of the season. Only the highest scoring knights were invited to participate, and Steve had been fortunate enough to rank among them. He was not due to compete for several hours, but he wanted to get in some last minute practice. Bucky had suggested that he work off some excess energy with Captain, rather than wear a rut into the floor of their tent with his pacing.

Today would be the day he faced Sir Brock Rumlow. Steve had managed to avoid him since their last unpleasant exchange, but now they would meet once more in the arena. Steve was determined to emerge victorious. Sir Brock might wear the title, but he was no knight. He did not deserve the honor of tournament champion, and Steve had no intention of allowing it.

The sound of Natasha shouting for Bucky caused Steve to halt and turn around. His concern grew as he saw Natasha and Sam push their way through the crowd. Natasha’s hair was loose around her face, which was drawn into a tight frown, and Sam’s brow was furrowed with worry.

Steve looked at Bucky, who shrugged back at him, seemingly just as mystified as to what could be the matter. Natasha reached Steve’s side and dug her fingers into his forearm.

“We have to go,” she said in a hushed voice. “You’ve been found out.”

Bucky inhaled sharply, but Steve scarcely noticed. He blinked at Natasha in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Rumlow knows that you gave a false name,” Sam said, his voice grim.

“I see.” Anger knotted in Steve’s stomach. “I suppose I am disqualified.”

“I suppose so.” Natasha’s voice had risen by two octaves. “Steve, this is bigger than a silly joust. You are in serious trouble! You must leave, now, before the guards find you and take you in.”

“Leave now?” Steve asked. “What proof does he even have? Perhaps we can reason with the authorities.”

“The royal guards do not _reason,_ Steve.” Sam grabbed his hand and rubbed his thumb over Steve’s knuckles in soothing circles. “They will arrest you now and ask questions after you have spent six months in a cell. I will go with you wherever you flee, but--”

“Flee?” Steve straightened his shoulders. He brought Sam’s hand to his lips for a brief kiss, careless of the gawking from the passers by. This was not the time for modesty. “I do not flee. I will take my chances.”

“But Steve,” Natasha pleaded.

“I am a knight,” Steve reminded her. “And knights do not back down from their aggressors.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Besides, the guards will chase me down regardless. And that will mean trouble for the rest of you as well. Better that I face them now, on my own terms.”

Bucky threw his arms around Steve, then handed over Captain’s reins. Nat fell into Sharon’s arms, eyes brimming with tears. Sam rested a hand on Bucky's shoulder, his expression calm. The hand that Steve had kissed, Sam now raised to his own lips with the slightest nod of his head. Steve forced a brave smile as he adjusted his grip before continuing towards the arena.

The guards awaited him. 

Steve did not put up a fight. He held his head high as the guards led him away. He caught sight of Sir Brock gesturing haughtily as he conversed with a group of nobles, but he made no sign that he’d noticed.

He lowered his head and hands into the worn grooves of the pillory. Crowds of villagers filled the streets, whispering gleefully as they watched the locks click into place. Steve spotted more than a few tomatoes in hand, ready to be tossed once the riots became rambunctious.

“Cowards,” Natasha growled under her breath. “Only yesterday they were cheering at your victories. Now they cheer at your misfortune.”

Natasha, Bucky, and Sharon stood in a row at the foot of the pillory stage, poised to fend off the rotting debris that would no doubt come flying Steve’s way. Steve had insisted that they leave him to his punishment, but not one of them would budge from their station. 

The first tomato came, batted away by Nat. A second came, then a cabbage, ripe with age. It caught on Bucky’s elbow. The third tomato hit the pillory, spewing Steve’s face with pulp. He grimaced at the sickly sweet scent, but he steeled his jaw. There would be more to come. He had to stay strong and think of a plan. 

A crescendo of gasps rippled through the crowd. Steve looked up to see Natasha, Sharon, and Bucky backing up closer to him, posture stiff. Confused, he squinted through the tomato clinging to his eyelashes. His eyes flew open at the scene before him.

The crowd had parted like the Red Sea, and the villagers were on their knees, silent. Five stallions trotted across the cleared cobblestone in an arrow formation. Two women warriors rode on either side, clad in armor that shone with impossibly polished onyx and scarlet. And at the front was King T’Challa himself.

The king looked relaxed, but unsmiling as he moved forward with purpose, not sparing a glance at the villagers. He was as handsome as ever, in his finest vibranium armor. Steve tried not to gawk as the king slid off his horse with effortless grace.

Natasha nearly tripped in her haste to bow and move out of the king’s way at the same time. Bucky and Sharon followed suit, though their eyes darted back and forth between Steve and King T’Challa in amazement. Steve wasn’t sure what to say. He doubted that any amount of time spent as a knight would have prepared him for how to greet royalty from the pillory.

Steve looked up, wordlessly, trying to decipher the expression on the king’s face. The king returned his stare, unflinching, as though he were looking directly into Steve’s very soul.

“Your friends love you,” King T’Challa said at long last. “If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough. But you also stand firm when you should yield. That is admirable, as well.”

Steve wasn’t sure what was meant by those words, but he had no time to ponder. The king raised his left hand. One of his guards flew off her horse and swung up to the pillory stage. With one sleek movement, her sword sliced through the locks, and Steve was free.

Bucky ran to Steve’s side to support him as he stood on shaking legs. Natasha and Sharon accosted him as well, fussing over his stiffened limbs and tomatoed visage. Steve was touched by their concern, but he hushed them as the king addressed the crowd.

“I have a proclamation.” King T’Challa did not need to raise his voice to have every pair of eyes in the square fixed on him.

“The man before you stands accused of impersonating a knight. And yet, at my personal request, the royal genealogists have uncovered the truth.”

The faintest murmur went through the crowd, but the king paid them no mind. “They have confirmed,” he continued, “that this man, without question, is indeed of royal blood. And so, I will knight him now, to clear up any false claims to the contrary.”

The guard who had freed Steve nudged him sharply in the hip with the hilt of her sword. Steve hastened to scramble off the stage and kneel in front of the king. He felt the weight of the king’s sword shift from one shoulder to another.

“Through the power vested in me by the great kingdom of Wakanda, and under the watchful eyes of these witnesses, I declare you Sir Steven Rogers. You are sworn to uphold all virtues of knighthood, from this day through your last.” 

King T’Challa looked up at the crowd and smiled. “Arise, and cheer for Sir Steven. He has faced hardship, yet stood firm in what he knew to be the truth. May he always demonstrate that same bravery that we have seen here today.”

The crowd went wild. Steve knew it was mostly for King T’Challa, but he did not care. He was only concerned with the opinions of his friends, who wore matching expressions of glee.

The king held out a hand. “And now, Sir Steven. I understand that you have a tournament to win.”

Steve accepted the hand and stood up, grinning. He still had plenty of time to compete, it was true. But more importantly, he had to get to Sam and share his good fortune. He was not certain what sort of future he could offer, but whatever Steve had was Sam’s, irrevocably, to do with as he chose.

And if it was after Sir Brock had been made to eat dirt, all the better.

~

“Well, that was easy.” Steve dismounted Captain as soon as he’d exited the arena and tossed the reins towards Bucky. “Who would have thought that a braggart with no honor would go down that fast?”

“I want to tell you not to disparage your skills,” Bucky said as he caught the reins. “But the way he flipped backwards off his horse was… well it was something.”

“It was embarrassing, that’s what it was.” Natasha’s tone was smug, but Steve was not in the mood to criticise. He had other matters on his mind. Specifically, Lord Samuel Wilson’s hand clasped in his own, just as it had been once Steve had been proclaimed tournament champion. Sam had leapt from his seat in the stands and grabbed Steve’s hand through his gauntlet, out in the open in front of everyone. Steve had been grateful that his helm hid his blush as the crowd’s whispers grew into a full fledged cheer.

They had not separated since. But Steve needed to clean himself up before the awards ceremony. He shrugged to himself; he would simply have to find a way to freshen up without letting go of Sam’s hand. And if he could sneak in a kiss, that would be lovely as well.

Sam seemed to be on the same page as he shot Stve a sly glance. “Allow me to borrow Sir Steven for a moment. We will return to the tent shortly.”

Steve allowed Sam to drag him down to the riverbank, laughing as they ran with abandon, free from worry. “You do not have to call me Sir Steven, you know,” he said reproachfully. “Steve will do just fine.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly,” he said, “I was told that I need only call you _mine._ Anything else is immaterial." He rested his hands on Steve’s waist, pulling him closer. “Is that still accurate?”

“Of course it is.” Steve kissed the tip of Sam’s nose, trying not to become flustered as memories of that night spent together swirled in his mind. “That is the only title I accept without question.”

“Is that so?” Sam looked thoughtful. “So whatever I ask of you, I may have it?”

“Absolutely.”

“What if I ask for something outlandish?”

“You may still have it,” Steve said with confidence. “I trust you, Sam, with my life and my heart. If there is any whim within my power to grant you, I will do it. And if it is impossible, I will grant it all the same.”

“Hmmm.” Sam pretended to think hard. “So if I asked you and your friends to join my court, serve me and my people, you would do it?”

“That is not fair.”Steve ran his hands down Sam’s biceps. “Serving you is not a request, it’s an honor. Of _course_ I would accept.”

“What about joining me on a quest?”

“A quest?” Steve pulled back and frowned, curious.

“A quest,” Sam confirmed. “I hear tales of misdeeds amongst my people, and the people of neighboring lands. They need protection, and justice, but more than that, they need the promise that heroes still exist. They need _hope.”_

“And you want _me_ to give it to them?”

“Will you deny me this?”

“Deny you-- no Sam, never, but…” Steve took a deep breath. “Are you sure that you are ready to enter that life once more? You left for good reason.”

“I am.” Sam gave Steve’s narrow hips a squeeze; his armor was sturdy, but Steve felt the comforting warmth of Sam’s fingers all the same. “I have Sir Steven Rogers by my side, now. What better time to get back in?”

Steve didn’t care who might be peeking at them from the town's edges. He swooped in to kiss Sam, sure and soundly. Time stood still as they melded together, one heart in two bodies.

And if they were late to the awards ceremony, Steve knew he had trusted people to cover for him. He’d won the highest honor of all; that of Sam’s love. And he’d be damned sure to work for it every day, from this day through his last.


End file.
